I run on autopilot, busying myself with everything from inventory to making my way throughThe New Rules of Coffeebook. I even volunteer to cover service, sending my baristas, Carmen and Jin, off to lunch. I’m ready with my best andbrightest smile in place when the bell chimes, signaling another customer.
“Hi!” I greet cheerfully. “Welcome to The Great Escape!”
The man who’s walked in is in his 30s. His navy-blue suit looks like it cost more than this month’s revenue. There’s something about the swagger with which he walks in that immediately makes me uneasy. He confirms why when he eyes my chest a moment later.
This is the challenge of customer service, though, isn’t it?
I refuse to let my smile waver.
“Hey there, beautiful,” he purrs. The smell of his cologne is overpowering, no matter how expensive I’m sure it was.
Keeping my tone as professional as possible, I ask, “What can I get you today, sir?”
“I came in here craving an Americano, but you can give me whatever so long as it has your number on it.” His smile puts his veneers on display. It’s cocky. Nerves flutter within me. I order my body not to squirm.
Politely, I nod. “Americano coming up!” I say, like I never heard the rest.
I turn around—breathe in, out, you’re okay—and go through the motions. They’re becoming more and more familiar to me. It helps.You’ve got this.I’ve handled worse, after all.
“So,” the man interrupts my internal pep-talk, “a place like this… You must be new, honey. I know all the hot spots around here. Besides, I’d remember a face like yours.”
Swallowing a grimace, I return to him with his beverage.
“We just opened a couple of weeks ago. Thanks for giving us a try!” I hold out the coffee. “Here you go. That’ll be three-fifty.”
He pulls out his wallet and throws a $10 bill on the counter with gravitas. “Keep the change, honey.” He winks. “You’re probably wasted working in a place like this. A girl like you shouldn’t be bussing counters in an apron.”
My face hurts from fake-smiling. “That’s very kind. But I actually own this place.”
“No shit,” he says, wearing his offensive surprise. For some reason, he takes this as an invitation to lean across the counter. “Well, honey, if your own boss, what’s stopping you from closing up early and letting me take you to lunch?”
“Oh, that’s very nice of you to offer, but no thank you.”
He dares to laugh, green eyes twinkling. Like I’m playing hard to get.
“You don’t have to play coy with me,” he entices.
“I’m not. I’m just not interested, sir.”
I barely register the chime of the door before the man is being yanked off and away from the counter.
“Are you fucking deaf? Get the fuck away from her, motherfucker,” Iosif growls, tossing him aside like a ragdoll.
“Hey! What the fuck—”
“Out.”
It isn’t a suggestion. Iosif more or less picks the man up and tosses him out. I can’t even begin to process it. What if there were other customers?
Somehow, I doubt it would keep him from making a scene.
Like he owns the place, he locks the door and flips the sign to CLOSED.
I can’tbelievehim.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hate how whiny my voice comes out. My face is flushed with anger.
Iosif is unfazed. “I thought it was fairly obvious.”
